Ill With Want
by Norah Rose
Summary: Sherlock is in bed with an illness. Luckily, he's got his doctor to look after him.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I've been on vacation for the last two weeks and somewhere along the way, this fic was born. I just love sick Sherlock. The title comes from a song by The Avett Brothers of the same name.

I plan to have more chapters, possibly one for every day of illness. We'll see how it works out. This hasn't been britpicked, so do let me know if I get anything wrong. Enjoy. :)

Oh, and none of this is mine. Goodness. I wish it was.

* * *

When Sherlock woke on Saturday morning his first indication of trouble was that it was nearly 12 in the afternoon. Sherlock never slept past 8. He was efficient, quick to rise, and quick to begin his busy days. His body hardly required sleep, yet today, he had slept in. The very thought was preposterous.

His second indication that something was off was the headache that was making it simply impossible to think clearly. He sat up slowly in bed, stretched his aching limbs, and shook his head slightly. Aching limbs, a pounding headache…

And his throat felt as though someone had taken a hammer to it.

"John," he croaked, looking around the room. Perhaps he'd been injured the night before. He was quite accustomed to waking up and being unable to remember the causes of all his pains. John, however, could always be trusted to keep up with his injuries.

"John!" he called again, a bit louder this time. His voice cracked and his throat protested at the attempted yell. There was still no sign of John. He wracked his brain but found that he couldn't possibly have been injured last night. He hadn't even gone out. It had been an unbearably dull day.

"John!" he tried once more, this time stretching his voice to its limit. He fell back onto the bed in frustration and tried to ignore the throbbing pain that had settled on his entire body.

His closed his eyes and began to assess his symptoms. Pounding headache, aching limbs, sore throat, sensitivity to light. He pressed a hand to his forehead. Definite fever. And a general weakness of the body and mind, he was alarmed to find.

Could be systemic Lupus. The signs were there. His mother had always said that he was a sickly child.

Or possibly Giant Cell Arteritis. More common in women than men, but some men did get it. It wasn't impossible. Improbable maybe, but not impossible.

Could be from something he had eaten the previous day. Something like Brucellosis, or Campylobacteriosis.

His thoughts were interrupted as John rushed into the room, his breathing heavy as if he'd sprinted there. He likely had.

The doctor was naked. Well, not naked, really. He had a towel looped around his waist, though he was holding it tightly as if he was afraid it would fall away. His chest was bare, shining with water, and more muscular than the average man's. He had clearly kept up some of his workouts from before the war.

His hair stood at all angles, as if he'd run his hand frantically through it before it was given the chance to dry.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, his eyes wide with… panic? Sherlock had worried him then. Pity. It wasn't truly that important.

"I don't feel well," Sherlock said, sounding a bit like a petulant child.

"You yelled across the flat for me, disturbing my shower, because you… don't feel well?"

"I don't feel well at all," Sherlock said, as if this should excuse his hyperbolic actions.

John started towards Sherlock's bed, then looked down at his lack of clothing and faltered. "Can this 'emergency' wait until I'm clothed?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed loudly. He threw his head back against the pillow but quickly regretted his action as it sent a fresh piercing pain through his head. He tried to hide his wince but John was already in doctor mode, and being far more attentive than usual.

"For God's sake," John murmured with a huff of exasperation. He pulled the towel tighter around his waist and walked into the room. Taking care to knot the towel at his side, John took a seat on the edge of Sherlock's bed

"Now you're not allowed to complain if I get the blanket a bit wet."

"Course not," Sherlock muttered, his eyes once again fluttering shut as he shifted to allow John more space on the edge of the bed.

A cool hand on his forehead brought Sherlock back to his senses and when he opened his eyes, he found John only inches from his own face.

"Sherlock, you're burning up," the doctor said, his face wrought with concern. "You must feel terrible."

Sherlock gave John a pointed look.

"Yes," John sighed. "I suppose it is a good thing you called me, even if you did feel the need to interrupt basic hygiene."

"Dull," Sherlock said, though as he spoke his throat seemed to reject the words and he immediately began coughing violently. His fit ended with his eyes bleary and his head protesting.

"Alright?" John asked, his hand coming to rest softly on Sherlock's shoulder. "You need liquids, lots of them, and…" he glanced down at Sherlock's slightly shaking body. "God, are you cold? Even with this fever? I'll bring blankets. Must be flu. It is that time of year."

Flu, of course. Sherlock always managed to misdiagnose himself. Flu made perfect sense.

"We've seen loads of it at the office," John continued, "I hope I haven't brought it right to you. I really should be more careful about the patients that I see. It won't do to have you sick."

John broke off and looked down at Sherlock. Their eyes met, and for a moment, no one spoke.

They were just here, in Sherlock's bedroom, on his bed, together. With Sherlock just as ill as he'd ever been, and John, wearing only a loose towel around his waist. As usual, they made quite the pair.

"I'll go get you water then," John said, shifting his eyes quickly away from Sherlock's. He hopped off the bed with speed, as though he were trying to outrun something. "And blankets. And, um," he faltered and glanced down at himself, "perhaps I'll throw on a jumper." He once again pulled the towel tighter around his waist. "And trousers," he added with a small smile to Sherlock. "Suppose I'll put on some trousers, too."

He was out of the room before Sherlock had the time to reply.

When John returned to the room he came carrying a small table and chair. He set them down beside Sherlock's bed, and then left the room once more. He then returned with a tray that contained several bottles of water, a cup of tea, assorted biscuits, a bowl of soup, and two pieces of toast. "I wasn't sure what you would feel up to," he said, as he set the tray on the table.

"That won't be necessary. I've decided that I'm fine," Sherlock said, sitting up further in the bed. In the time that John had been absent, he'd realized how utterly boring being sick was, and had decided that he wasn't quite in the mood for it. "Perhaps I can persuade Lestrade to give me a case." As Sherlock started to rise from the bed, he was stopped quickly.

"Oh no you don't," John grasped Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him back down onto the bed. "You're sick, Sherlock."

"I'm not," Sherlock whined.

"You said you were earlier."

"I lied."

"You never lie."

"Sometimes I lie."

"About what?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered downward. Being married to his work, lacking emotions, not having any feelings for his flat mate… His mind whirled with the lies.

John pursed his lips and shook his head. "You're being ridiculous. If you try to go out instead of staying in bed, you're only going to be ill longer. Best to stay in bed a few days until it's cleared up. I am a doctor, you know."

Sherlock groaned. "A wretched one."

"Don't be rude," John said.

Sherlock huffed and started to turn over in bed, in order to pout properly, but as he rolled he erupted into another fit of coughing. When he'd regained control of his body, Sherlock looked up to find John with a slight smirk playing on his lips.

"Now, tea or water?" he asked.

Sherlock wasn't prepared to quit so easily. "John, you must understand. There's work to be done, crimes to be solved." He paused and lifted an eyebrow elegantly. "Danger to be had."

"You think you can mention danger and I'll just forget all good sense?" John asked, his forehead heavy with lines.

"It's worked before."

"Well, not this time. Looking after you while you're feeling ill is danger enough for me, Sherlock," John said with a quiet laugh.

"Please, John. I'm bored already. Let's call Lestrade. Get a case." Sherlock gave John his saddest expression. He widened his eyes and tried desperately to appear vulnerable.

John, of course, saw right through his act. "Stop that," he said. "Water it is. I'll have the tea for myself."

"I want the tea," Sherlock said, dropping his wounded puppy act in an instant.

John ran his hand over his mouth in frustration. "Of course you do," he said, his tone indicating that he would like to hit Sherlock in the face rather than give him the tea. But, ever the giver, he handed over the cup with no hesitation.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, in a voice so low that it was barely audible.

"Yes, fine," John said, taking a drink of the water he was left with. He took a seat in the chair beside Sherlock's bed.

The room was silent as Sherlock took small sips of his tea. "You're not really a wretched doctor," he said finally.

A small smile spread over John's face. "Drink your tea," he said, affectionately.

"You don't have to look after me."

John set his drink down and leaned forward to rest his arms on the bed. He propped his hands in them. "I'm your friend, Sherlock. That's what friends do."

"I'm irritable," Sherlock said.

"I'm well aware," John answered, his eyes wide.

"I'm more irritable when I'm ill."

"Most people are," John shrugged. "No one should have to suffer through flu alone. These are only the early symptoms. It gets much more miserable."

"I've done it before. Alone," the detective said.

Compassion flashed across John's features as he studied the man in the bed. "You won't have to do it again then, will you?" John leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, finding a comfortable position. He clearly wasn't going anywhere.

"John?" Sherlock said, his voice weak.

"Hm?"

"I'm cold."

John gave a small sigh and left the room to hunt for more blankets. It was going to be a long week.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Hi, guys! I'M ALIVE! Ha. Really though, I am terribly sorry about the ridiculous wait. I'm at college now! I go to the University of North Carolina. Go Tar Heels!

Anyway I've been incredibly busy with moving in and my first week of classes and general college stuff. I'm a bit more settled in now. Updates should be much more frequent. Again, I am so very sorry about the wait. Enjoy. :)

* * *

The first morning of Sherlock's illness progressed rather smoothly. Or as smoothly as anything regarding Sherlock Holmes could possibly progress.

Sherlock complained endlessly about being sick, John waited on him hand and foot, as he often did anyway, and the both of them fell into a sort of comfortable boredom. At least, John found some comfort. He didn't truly mind a quiet day in, but for Sherlock it was the cruelest form of torture. John kept him confined to the bed, claiming that experiments involving "questionable fumes" weren't good for sickness. Sherlock pouted even as his coughing grew more violent.

He finally fell asleep for good and John was able to creep out of the room and find himself a bit of rest. He was out for only a few hours before he was woken by a crash in the kitchen.

He hurried out of bed and rushed into the other room to find Sherlock leaning on the counter heavily, with only a thin sheet covering his otherwise naked body.

The sheet wasn't a surprise. Often Sherlock couldn't be bothered to put on clothing. John was accustomed to seeing his long, pale limbs. The first time Sherlock had emerged from his room with only a thin piece of fabric for cover, John had nearly jumped out of his skin. Imagining Sherlock's muscles and the many angles of his body in private was one thing, but actually seeing them, as Sherlock paraded casually around the flat, was another entirely. Now, however, he was past the shock. And Sherlock was an utter mess.

"Sherlock," John muttered, "You shouldn't be out of bed. Goodness." Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot, his hair was as disheveled as John had ever seen it, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his entire body. "You look bloody terrible."

"Need tea," Sherlock mumbled largely to himself. He didn't even raise his eyes to acknowledge John's presence.

"Sherlock, you need to go back to bed," John said again, taking a step closer to the man.

Again Sherlock didn't seem to hear John at all.

"Sherlock…"

Nothing.

"Sherlock!"

John reached for his friend's arm, but stepped back abruptly as the sheet fell from Sherlock's body.

John had seen Sherlock naked before, but never like this. He'd seen him in a rush from the bathroom to his room. Or when his sheet would slip momentarily. But never like this. Never so closely, with Sherlock standing two feet from him, and not bothering to hide himself at all. Never with Sherlock unaware that he was even revealing everything.

John's eyes traveled slowly along the light sprinkling of hair that grew as it spread down Sherlock's lithe body. His gaze lingered only for a moment before he remembered his purpose. He tore his eyes back to Sherlock's face and was struck by the vacant, empty eyes that met his. He'd never seen Sherlock in such a haze, but he pushed his fear down and focused on getting the detective back to bed.

John reached for the sheet and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders, pulling it tight in the front and guiding Sherlock's hand to encourage him to grasp where the sheet was held together.

"You're sick, Sherlock," he said, his face mere inches from his friend's. "You're sick and you have a fever and it's causing you to be a bit… out of it."

"I'm not," Sherlock started before his attention returned to tea. He turned from John, pulling the sheet with him, and reached for a cup. It was as if he'd forgotten John was there at all.

"Oh, you are," John said with a sigh. He reached again to grip Sherlock's arm.

As a doctor John had seen many strong reactions to fevers. He could deal with this. This was Sherlock. He was over the top and eccentric and often completely and totally mad. It made sense that, like everything else he did, he would be sick dramatically.

"Back to bed," John said, pulling Sherlock with him into the other room. "I'll make your tea. You need to rest."

As Sherlock settled back into the bed his eyes seemed to clear momentarily. "Fever," he muttered. "I'm feverish."

"Very," John confirmed.

Sherlock started to speak again but the thought seemed to leave him and he leaned back against the pillow.

"I'll make you tea," John said, shooting one last worried glance at Sherlock before he returned to the kitchen.

When he came back, tea in hand, Sherlock was asleep. John let out a long breath and sat in the chair beside Sherlock's bed, setting the tea in front of him.

* * *

Watching Sherlock sleep had always fascinated John. While awake the man was pure energy. He hardly stood still for a moment. But in sleep, he was the polar opposite.

Sherlock slept like the dead. It was a bit disconcerting really. Sherlock looked like a piece of art. His smooth pale skin evened out, the longer of his untamed curls spread out over his forehead, and any lines of worry that typically appeared on his face disappeared in full. He looked like a god or perhaps some classic sculpture. John found it all slightly blinding. It was almost too much.

He grabbed the cup of tea and walked to the kitchen with the intention of pouring it out. He faced the sink and washed the liquid down the drain. When he turned around, John was met by a dark figure in the corner of the room.

For one terrifying, piercing moment, John thought that Moriarty had broken into the flat, but a closer look showed that it was instead Mycroft.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here? How… how did you even get in here? No, that… that doesn't even matter." John couldn't control the words that flowed out of his mouth. Even as he questioned he realized that everything he was saying was futile. Of course Mycroft had gotten in. He essentially had power over anything that he wanted.

"I'm told that Sherlock is sick. I'm here to take him to be cared for. There's a car waiting outside."

John let out a slight huff of laughter. "That isn't necessary, thanks. I'm looking after him. Doctor, remember? You and Sherlock both seem to have forgotten…"

"Of course not, John. You're a perfectly decent doctor."

"Perfectly decent, lovely," John muttered.

Mycroft narrowed is eyes but continued speaking. "When Sherlock was a child he was sick… often. He didn't eat properly."

"Imagine that," John interjected again.

Mycroft looked affronted a cleared his throat softly.

"Right, yes. Continue then," John said, pressing his lips together tightly.

"He got terrible fevers. So terrible that he was hospitalized many times. Tests upon tests were run but doctors could find nothing medically wrong with him. He was just sick… violently sick. One could even venture a guess that his affinity for experiments developed during the hospital visits. He's too much to handle when he's like this. I'll have my people nurse him back to health and return him to you. I assure you, he'll be just as good as new." Mycroft started for Sherlock's room.

"Oi!" John said, throwing himself between Mycroft and the door. "I can handle him fine. I'm a _doctor. _This is what I do. I care for sick people."

"You're not this kind of doctor," Mycroft said, his voice low and ominous.

"I was at _war_, Mycroft. You wouldn't believe the things I can handle." John's body stiffened as he mentioned the war. He set his lips in a tight line. His eyes darkened. "I don't think Sherlock would want to go with you. I'll take care of him here." He clenched his fists at his sides, without really meaning to at all.

Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment, composing himself. He drew a sharp "He gets violent. He doesn't realize he's doing it. He… hallucinates. And shakes. The fevers will make it seem as if he's having seizures, but use blankets. Blankets help. Just keep him warm."

John gave a small nod. "Right."

"John, he… he hasn't had this in years. I don't know how much worse he will be."

"He'll be fine."

"He'll likely strike you."

"Fine,"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak again. He took a step backwards and started for the door. "If you need anything," he started, turning to look at John.

"I know who to call," John finished.

Mycroft pulled the door open. "Mycroft…" John said, stopping him in his tracks.

Mycroft turned and John caught his eyes. For a moment he could see a flash of fear in them. For a brief moment he was just a boy. A boy worrying about his younger brother. His baby brother. Despite his cold, aloof facade, Mycroft cared. He had always cared. And no matter how it seemed, Mycroft did want to look after him. Allowing John to take the lead here wasn't easy.

"Thank you," John said, lowering his head slightly in appreciation.

"Take care of him," Mycroft replied coolly before exiting the flat.

"And stop breaking in!" John called after him.

He ran a hand over his mouth and scratched at his hair. Extreme shakes. Violence. Great. Sherlock really was going to make this as difficult as possible.

* * *

Author's Note: I know it isn't as eventful as one might hope, but I'm planning A LOT for next chapter. I'd love to hear what you think! And you can always follow me on Twitter. My name there is SkyyTweet. Thanks, guys!


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Hello, all! Not quite as long of a wait this time, but I'm still trying to make more time for writing. School does keep me very busy. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this. And be sure to find me on Twitter at SkyyTweet if you'd like!

* * *

John had never realized just how much his life revolved around Sherlock Holmes. He'd never realized how much he talked to him, or chased him around, or simply marveled at his brilliance, but now, with Sherlock sleeping the day away, John realized that his life did, in fact, hinge on the activities of this man.

He didn't know what to do with himself. Sherlock had been asleep for hours. The blog was, for once, completely up to date. He couldn't go to work. He had already made tea… twice. There was truly nothing to do

In the end he settled on hours of Doctor Who. But before long he was asleep in his chair in front of the television. There's only so much rewatching one can do, even when you are watching David Tennant's doctor.

But his rest was short lived. Mere moments after John had drifted off to sleep a thundering crash from Sherlock's bedroom roused him. He was up and running to the room without even realizing what he was doing.

When he entered the room he found Sherlock crumpled on the bed, clutching his hand. There was a gaping hole in the opposite wall and it didn't take a consulting detective to put the pieces together. John surveyed the damage briefly before giving a sigh and approaching Sherlock.

"Let me see then," John said, reaching for Sherlock's hand. He cradled it gently, running his fingers over each knuckle. "Nothing broken, luckily. Bit of bruising, of course. I'll get some ice." John was out of the room and into the kitchen before Sherlock could say anything.

He returned with a bag of ice and reached again for Sherlock's hand. As he held the ice on him, Sherlock still didn't speak. John realized that his hand was shaking. A quick glance told John that his entire body was shaking. "Are you still cold?" John asked, his eyes wide.

"Freezing," Sherlock said, looking down at his hand. "I'm buried in blankets, and it isn't cold in here. No, not at all. You're not even wearing a jumper, so it can't be cold. You wear a jumper anytime the temperature…"

"Sherlock," John said softly. Sherlock was rambling now, his teeth chattering slightly.

"You always wear a jumper and you're not and the blankets… so, so it can't be cold. But I can't warm up, John. Don't you see?! It doesn't matter what I do. Nothing, _nothing_ that I do helps and I…"

"Sherlock!" John cut off his increasingly loud rant. "You're ill. The cold, it's normal. It happens to everyone."

"Precisely why it _shouldn't_happen to me!" Sherlock roared, ripping his hand out of John's reach. "I'm not _normal_, John." Sherlock spat the words like they were venom on his tongue, as if "normal" were a curse word. "Lestrade is normal. Donovan… Anderson," Sherlock shuddered, literally shuddered, at the name. "You, John, you're normal. You go out to the store and to work and you get ill and lie in bed for a week moaning. Then you go back to work and meet a woman. A lovely, kind woman. Boring, but you're okay with boring because it's comfortable. And then you begin dating and it's oh, so nice, and you make slow, considerate love. Then you're married and there are children. A boy and a girl! How wonderful. You grow old, in your dull lives, and you die one day of a heart attack. A boring, _normal_ death. Your wife and kids are devastated, yes, but they'll soon be back to normal. And when they grow old enough your wretched darling children repeat the process over and over again until "normal" is established. _That_ is normal, John. That's you. It isn't me."

Sherlock stopped finally, his chest heaving with the energy used for his speech. His eyes grew softer as he slowly realized all that he'd said.

John's eyes were steel, his face stoic. His hands were clenched tightly in fists at his side. "Get in bed," he ordered, letting no emotion ring through his words.

In his fit of frustration Sherlock had forgotten himself. He'd lashed out at the one person that was trying to help. "John," he started, his eyes flickering up to meet the doctor's.

"Bed," John commanded, holding Sherlock's stare and absolutely daring him to disagree. But Sherlock, genius that he was, did as he was told. Sherlock pulled the blankets over his body but his shivering didn't cease. He had grown paler after his yelling and the pressure in his head was nearly unbearable. The fever was returning at full force; he knew the symptoms.

"Where do you keep extra blankets?" John asked, pulling Sherlock briefly back to reality.

"I'm already using them. Including the ones from your bed that you added earlier."

John didn't bother to act impressed at that deduction. It was simple. "So we're out of those then?"

Sherlock gave a small nod and winced, as the pain in his head grew more apparent.

John stared at the man in the bed for a moment. Sherlock Holmes was usually so strong. Poised and brilliant and utterly unmovable, and yet now he looked quite the opposite. His dark curls fell across his face in an unruly fashion. His skin appeared so pale that it had to be unhealthy. His face seemed only more angular.

But his eyes were the most telling. Usually they were bright, filled with light and understanding, but now they were a dull grey, filled with regret and, John could've sworn, fear.

Sherlock still shivered violently, even under the layer of blankets that had been piled atop him. Suddenly John had a solution. It was ridiculous and likely inappropriate, but every shake that Sherlock gave convinced him more.

"Scoot over," he said as he climbed onto the bed next to Sherlock. For a moment the detective was still. He simply stared at John, his eyes wide as he struggled to assess the situation.

"Body heat," John said, offering a simple explanation. "Now scoot."

Sherlock moved, making room on one side of the bed. John gave a small sigh and climbed behind Sherlock, settling into the space he'd left. It was all or nothing at this point. He laid down and pressed his chest to Sherlock's back, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing, willing all of his warmth away.

Sherlock still hadn't spoken and remained stiff and clearly uncomfortable in his arms.

"Sherlock, relax," John said, trying not to think about the fact that he was speaking in hushed tones directly in Sherlock's ear. He'd dreamed of this, oh, many times, but never in such circumstances. "Body heat is the easiest way to warm someone up. Just go to sleep."

Sherlock grew slightly less tense. "You'll get sick," he said after a moment.

"I've had a shot."

"Oh."

"Sleep, Sherlock." John, for whatever reason, suddenly felt possessed to reach up and run a hand softly through Sherlock's hair.

"The fever is returning."

"Sleep."

Sherlock did.

* * *

John, however, wasn't the least bit tired. He'd been sleeping all day and unlike Sherlock, his body wasn't exhausted due to sickness. As Sherlock's breathing fell into a steady rhythm, John pulled him closer and held him tighter. His skin was warm, because of the fever, John knew, yet he still shivered every few breaths.

John knew that he probably _would_ get sick, but he hadn't seen an alternative when he'd climbed into the bed. Sherlock was cold. John was warm. Solution acquired.

For what must've been at least an hour, John simply held Sherlock, and watched him. He ignored the fact that this was probably not what flat mates do. Probably not what people who are _just friends_ do.

But god, what were they anymore, really? John had come to terms long ago that he had very confusing feelings towards Sherlock. The "Oh-God-I'm-Straight-I-Can't-Think-About-Shagging-This-Man" phase was long gone. John had fought that right when he'd moved in.

None of it was important in the end anyway. Sherlock didn't feel the same way. He couldn't.

And that was fine.

For now, John was content with simply holding him, sharing his warmth, and pulling his fingers through his soft hair.

This could be enough. This would _have _to be enough.

* * *

John hadn't planned on falling asleep, but at some point Sherlock's steady breaths had pulled him in too. His peaceful dozing was interrupted rudely by a punch to his jaw.

The side of John's face pounded with the hit and he struggled to move from the bed. His eyes were bleary from sleep but Sherlock's roaring voice helped to wake him up.

"I told you not to come back here, Victor. NEVER come back!" Sherlock was standing beside the bed, his fist raised towards John, threateningly.

It seemed Mycroft's warning had been warranted. He was clearly feverous, confused, violent, and still very much asleep. John sat straight up in the bed and raised his hands in a show of surrender.

"Look, Sherlock," he stood slowly to the opposite side of the bed. "I'm not Victor. It's John. I'm John…"

Sherlock's chest was heaving, his face wet with sweat. His eyes were glassy and confused from being asleep. "I told you not to come back. I was quite clear."

"I live here, Sherlock. With you."

Sherlock's eyes flickered quickly over John. "You were in the bed," he said, his voice more questioning now than accusatory.

"You were cold. You're ill, Sherlock. That's all. Your fever's returned and you're dehydrated. You've been asleep. Dreaming."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he began to realize the situation. His breath hitched as he noticed the redness on John's jaw, and the throbbing pain of his own hand.

"I hit you," he breathed.

"You didn't know what you were doing."

"But I hit you."

"Yes," John gave a small nod. "I've been through worse."

"I didn't… John, I would never…" Sherlock paused as he searched for the proper words.

"I know, Sherlock," John said. He stepped forward and placed a cool hand on Sherlock's forehead. "You're burning up," he said, leaving his hand in place and meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Maybe we should take you in."

"No. No hospitals," Sherlock answered quickly. "I just need water. That's all. Water, rest… No hospitals."

John didn't look convinced but he led Sherlock into the kitchen and got him a glass of water anyway. He set several pills in front of Sherlock, who gave him a questioning glance. "For the fever," he explained. Sherlock took the pills without argument.

Sherlock was sweating even more now, his hair sticking to his forehead. The lines of John's face revealed his worry.

Sherlock was far, far too hot. He pressed his hand again to Sherlock. "This isn't safe," he muttered to himself, running a hand over his mouth and considering his options. "I'm putting you in a cool bath," he said finally. He would've rather taken Sherlock to the hospital, but it seemed that wasn't an option.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said, but even he didn't sound convinced.

"You're not," John pulled Sherlock from his seat in the kitchen. "Come on."

* * *

**Author's Note: **So there we have it! Next chapter will feature a bath, though I won't let you know just how much John will be involved. Muahaha. Cliff hanger of sorts. Anyway, I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Thanks, as always, for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **It's been so long. I really am terribly sorry. College makes my life more hectic than any life should be. I hope this is decent. I wrote it in between college papers and tests. I tried, guys.

**Recap:** Sherlock is extremely ill with flu. John is taking care of him. He's currently insisting on putting Sherlock in a cool bath.

* * *

When they'd reached the bathroom John started to run a bath of cool water. He glanced back to find Sherlock leaning heavily against the wall. "All right?" he asked.

"Fine," Sherlock murmured, but his eyes were pressed tightly shut.

"Come on then," John gestured towards the bath. "In you go."

John expected Sherlock to ask him to leave, or at least show some amount of modesty, but he did no such thing. He reached up with a low groan and started to pull his shirt over his head.

John's cheeks flushed as Sherlock pulled the shirt off and revealed his chest, which, despite having seen it many times before, John still wasn't accustomed to. When Sherlock reached down for his trousers John's entire body stiffened slightly. He was a doctor, damn it, and he could handle this.

Stripped down to just his pants, Sherlock finally seemed to hesitate for a moment. He must have decided against whatever issues he might've had, because he took the pants off as well and lowered himself slowly into the tub.

"Do you want me to…" John swallowed heavily. "Should I step outside, or?"

Sherlock slumped lower in the water, but provided no answer.

"Sherlock," John said, pointedly looking at his face. And JUST his face, he reminded himself as his eyes threatened to wander lower.

"I'm not a child," Sherlock said, not bothering to even open his eyes.

"Well that's… that's not even an answer to what I was asking," John said with a sigh. He didn't particularly want to leave the man alone, but he wasn't sure he could handle averting his eyes for much longer. And Sherlock had probably already noticed his discomfort. "I'll be just outside. I'll make tea. Yell if you need anything, Sherlock. Please. Anything at all."

"Not a child," Sherlock mumbled again.

John shook his head to himself and left the room, leaving the door cracked open a bit. Just in case. He busied himself by making a cup of tea and sinking into his chair. He tried to relax as he slowly finished his cuppa, but he couldn't stop thinking of Sherlock. It had been a long time, if ever, since he'd seen a reaction to illness like Sherlock's. Mycroft's warning had been far more serious than John had expected. The more he thought about it, the more he worried about Sherlock in the bath.

"All right, Sherlock?" he called towards the bathroom, trying to sound as though he were merely curious.

There was no answer.

"Sherlock?" he said again, a bit more loudly.

Still nothing.

Dread settled low in his belly. "Sherlock?!" His casual curiousness had now become more of a concerned bellow.

No reply.

He could stand it no longer. Images of Sherlock drowned in a bath filled his mind, and John rose quickly from his chair and hurried back into the bathroom. Sherlock could pout about being an adult all he wanted, as long as he was safe. John found the man leaning against the tub, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell steadily. John let out an audible sigh of relief.

"Sherlock, you need to answer me. I know this is frustrating." John ran a hand over his mouth and sat on the edge of the tub, eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. "Trust me, I know. Just, answer when I call, ok?"

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and John found that they were glassy and unfocused. "What?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood a word of what John said.

John leaned closer. Sherlock's eyes were vacant. Almost empty. It was like nothing John had seen from the man before this ridiculous flu. "Sherlock… Are you feeling ok?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear his mind. "I don't… What?" he asked again.

And suddenly, before John could react, Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head, and he began thrashing about the tub. He was having a seizure. God, Mycroft was right about the magnitude of this.

"Shit!" John said, plunging his hands into the tub to keep Sherlock's head above water. "Shit, shit, shit," he mumbled, cradling his head as he rode out the seizure.

It was short, only a few seconds, but it felt like eternity to John. When Sherlock stopped seizing he slumped in the tub and his head lolled in John's hands.

John steadied his breathing and snapped into doctor mode. He checked the man's vitals, all stable, and drained the water from the tub. He rolled Sherlock gently to his side, while keeping his hand gingerly under his head.

He grabbed a towel from the rack behind the door and placed it lightly across Sherlock's body. Sherlock's eyes were closed but John didn't try to rouse him. Seizures often caused grogginess, and though a tub wasn't very comfortable, John knew not to wake him until he'd fully recovered. For a few moments, he simply waited, filled with worry, and reassured himself by recalling everything he'd ever learned regarding seizures.

Somewhere along the way he had taken hold of Sherlock's hand, and even when he realized it, he found he didn't want to let go.

"Sherlock," he said gently, when the detective's eyes finally began to flutter open. "You've had a seizure. I need you to stay exactly as you are. Don't try to move. Not yet."

"John," Sherlock's voice was so low that John barely heard it.

"Yes, I'm here. Stay calm, Sherlock. You're fine. Everything's fine," John said, his voice strong and steady. He might be scared for his friend, but he was a doctor just now, and he would have to hide any fear.

"You're all right," he said again.

John could almost pinpoint the moment that Sherlock became aware of his surroundings again. Understanding came back into his eyes, and he looked down at his own body, covered by only a thin towel.

"A seizure," he said coolly. He didn't seem to remember what John had told him; he was deducing. John had seen enough deductions to know.

"Yes," John confirmed. "A minor seizure, I think. I'm taking you to the hospital anyway. I've never seen flu like this, Sherlock. Never. And you're terribly dehydrated. Malnourished as well. You hardly eat to begin with."

As John had expected, Sherlock's eyes grew dark when he mentioned the hospital. "I won't go."

"You have no choice," John said. "You're in my care, and I say you're going."

"No."

"If you pitch a fit, I'll call an ambulance and they'll take you, and prod at you along the way. I'm going to drive you. That's what's happening."

Sherlock's brow was drawn together tightly. His mouth quivered, but he said nothing. Finally, with another look down, he glanced back at John. "I'm naked."

"Yes, I see that," John said, willing away any blush that might have appeared on his cheeks.

"I can't go to the hospital naked."

"Yes, obviously you'll have to get dressed first."

"Well I won't," Sherlock said, staring straight ahead, avoiding John's eyes.

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"I won't get dressed."

John squeezed his hands into fists and searched desperately for some untapped patience within him. "Sherlock, please just…"

"I won't get dressed. I won't go to the hospital," Sherlock interrupted harshly.

"You will."

"No."

"Sherlock, you will get dressed, and you will go." John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "This is for your own good."

Sherlock was unfazed. "I won't," he said again.

"My god, you are a child," John stood and started toward the door. "Don't you dare move," he said, pointing at Sherlock, and left the bathroom.

"John?" Sherlock called from the bathroom. John ignored him and continued searching through the detective's drawers. If Sherlock wouldn't dress himself, then John would dress him. The man had a seizure, he was terribly dehydrated, and perhaps a hospital would force him to behave himself. This wasn't up for discussion.

He sifted through the clothes and swore under his breath when he couldn't find anything casual. No t-shirt; nothing. Only collared shirts that looked fit for a king, and tight dress pants. He gave up the search and hurried to his own room, where he pulled a large blue jumper and grey track suit bottoms from one of his drawers. Good enough.

Thankfully, by some miracle, Sherlock hadn't moved from his position in the tub. "You can make this easy or difficult, Sherlock," John said, looming over him, clothes in hand.

Sherlock huffed.

"Difficult then," John muttered. He kneeled beside the tub and softly placed his hands behind Sherlock's head. "Come on then," he said, helping the man sit up.

"John,"

"Quiet," John brought the blue jumper down over Sherlock's head and worked his arms through the holes. Sherlock put forth minimal effort, but he didn't fight him, which was something worth rejoicing.

"Are you ready to cooperate?" John asked, once the jumper was firmly on Sherlock.

"Is this yours?" Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose as he looked down at the fabric.

"That doesn't answer my question. Cooperation?"

"Is it yours?"

"Yes."

"Fine."

"Fine?" John quirked an eyebrow.

"Fine, give me the trousers," Sherlock said, still looking straight ahead.

John smiled slightly and passed the clothing to Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock said upon seeing the trousers. "The ridiculous jumper I will allow, though with great disdain."

"You need to be comfortable, Sherlock. We could end up in a waiting room for hours."

"I really do not have hours to waste. Seizure or no seizure."

John's face hardened at the reminder. "You need to be comfortable," he said again.

Sherlock sighed heavily but started to work his way into the tracksuit pants.

"I look positively laughable," he said, once dressed. The track pants were nearly a foot too short. This was what Sherlock got for making it bloody difficult to find his casual clothes. "I look like you."

John narrowed his eyes. "How can you be vain at a time like this?"

Sherlock scoffed and pulled at the jumper. "Do you feel this ridiculous all of the time?"

John felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. "Hush, you. Now up you come." John helped Sherlock out of the tub and pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulder.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said, but John could feel him leaning on him for support.

"I know you are. Of course you are. Are your shoes by the door?"

"Yes."

"Good. On we go then."

"John, we don't have a car."

"I've phoned a cab," John said without missing a beat. "It's waiting outside."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, and if John didn't know any better, he'd say the man sounded just a bit impressed.

John led Sherlock out of the house and into the taxi, and never once broke physical contact with him.


	5. Chapter 5

The waiting room was bleak. Whitewashed walls, white floors, terrible fluorescent lighting… Even as a doctor, John didn't like this part of the hospital. Sherlock had gone back to see a doctor as soon as John put his name in. Thanks to Mycroft, probably. The Holmes name seemed to carry power no matter where it went.

John had been sitting in the waiting room for nearly 45 minutes now, and he couldn't help but feel worried. He'd wanted to go back with Sherlock, but they'd taken him away so quickly that he hadn't had much of a choice. Sherlock had been dazed. He hadn't appeared to care one way or the other.

"What're you in for?" A light voice interrupted his thoughts. John looked up from the magazine he'd been pretending to flip through and saw a woman. She had blonde hair that curled just below her shoulders and enormous blue eyes. The kind of eyes that made you feel safe and like you were being used all at the same time. Light freckles covered her nose and cheeks.

"My flat mate," John said, shooting the woman a slight smile. "Had a seizure. And flu. Terrible case."

The woman nodded, like she knew exactly what he'd been through. "My mum was having chest pains… again. She does this fairly regularly. It's quite routine at this point." Her voice was sharp. Not quite bitter, but a pang of annoyance rang clear.

"Sorry," John said, not quite knowing if he was apologizing for her mother constantly dragging her to this waiting room or for her mother's pain.

"Yeah, well. The things you do for love, I guess. I'm Mary," she said, reaching across the divide between them to shake John's hand.

"John."

"Lovely to meet you, John, despite the circumstances." She grinned at him. Her smile was a bit crooked. Endearing.

"Yes. Lovely," he agreed, returning her smile.

"So your flat mate… Girlfriend?" Mary asked.

John huffed a breath of laughter. "Ha, girlfriend. No. Definitely not."

"Ah," Mary's smile widened knowingly. "Boyfriend?"

"Well, uh," John paused. "No, not boyfriend either. He's not… like that. Dating, he doesn't really do it. Ever. He's just... just a flat mate, I guess."

"Weird bloke?" Mary said.

"Very."

"So why do you live with him?"

John paused, thinking. He huffed a short laugh. "That's a great question. He's a nuisance usually. Does strange experiments. Sometimes he drugs me... It's ridiculous really. I shouldn't put up with it."

"But you do..." Mary offered.

"Yes. He sort of... well, definitely, I suppose. He definitely saved my life. Not in an obvious way. Though he's done that too. I was just sort of... lost... before I met him. Empty. I didn't have much to go on for. And he filled up my life." John smiled. "I'm never bored anymore. Or empty. You'd understand if you met him. He fills up the room. Not always in a good way, no, but you always know he's there. Right there with you." John stopped, realizing that he'd been rambling a bit.

"Wow... Would you want him to be your boyfriend then?" Mary said after a moment, scooting closer to him, like she was genuinely interested.

"I don't… no. I'm not gay. And he's. Well. So no. No," John said quickly, his face turning bright red.

"You sure about that?"

"You're quite nosy, aren't you?" John snapped before he could stop himself.

Mary shrugged. "I'm a journalist."

"Is that an excuse?"

"Typically," she said, still looking at John with that crooked smile.

"It's a lousy one."

"You're the one blushing ridiculously at any mention of your flat mate. I'm just seeking out a story."

"You're going to write a story about a man blushing in a hospital waiting room?" John asked.

"No, no, course not. No one would read that," Mary said, like John was the ridiculous one in the conversation. "I'm just really very bored."

"Yeah, me too," John said, unable to harbor any anger towards the woman. "So… a journalist?"

"Not a very successful one," Mary shrugged. "I do some freelance work. Run a blog."

"No kidding," John said, raising his eyebrows. "I run a blog."

"Do you?" Mary asked, scooting ever so slightly closer. She stared at his face for a moment. "Oh my god," she breathed, locking eyes with him. "I knew you looked familiar. John… John Watson, right?"

John wasn't sure whether to feel ashamed or proud. He settled with a thin smile. "John Watson," he confirmed. "Let me guess… You love the blog?" Now he couldn't help but let pride slip in. He'd gotten this reaction before.

Mary sat back in her seat and bit her lip. "Well…" she started, looking apologetically at him. "Love is a strong word, isn't it?"

John's eyes widened. "You hate the blog?"

"Uh, not exactly…" She paused, clearly unsure of whether she should continue.

"Go on then," John said.

"I sort of wrote a post, um, against your blog actually. About you, well, exploiting the actions of Sherlock Holmes, who clearly has a form of autism, for your own personal popularity and gain." She said the words quickly, spitting them out.

"That was you?!" John said, his voice rising higher than he intended.

"This is awkward," Mary said, biting at her lip again.

John laughed and Mary flinched in surprise a bit at the reaction. "My god, Sherlock had a right fit over that post. It got quite popular. Oh, of course you know that. Hundreds of people sent it to me. Spammed me with it, really."

"Sherlock saw it?" Mary said. It was her turn to blush.

"He loved it," John said, grinning. "I don't think he believed a word of it, but it bothered me so he wouldn't stop talking about it. Quoted it even. God, I can't believe you wrote that."

"It bothered you?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, obviously," John said. "You said I was using Sherlock for my own personal gain."

"Are you?" Mary pressed.

"Not at all."

"Ah," she said, closing her eyes for a moment. "Sorry then, I suppose."

"Don't be. From an outside perspective I suppose you made good points. I might've thought the same thing."

"I wouldn't say that now, you know, that you're exploiting him," Mary said, lowering her voice.

"Why not?" John asked, knowing the answer before he'd gotten it.

"The way you look when you talk about him," Mary said softly. "I'm not blind, John Watson. That smile you had when you described him. That's not a look you get about someone you're simply using. In fact, now I think he may be the one using you. You said he drugs you?"

"Sometimes!" John said with a short laugh. He sighed after a moment. "Are you going to make a blog post about this then? John Watson in love with his mad, probably asexual flat mate? I can imagine the comments now…"

"No," Mary shook her head, a small smile ghosting across her lips. "I'm not going to make a blog post about this."

Suddenly a doctor entered the double doors of the waiting room. "John Watson," he said, peering around the room.

"Yes?" John said, jumping to his feet.

"You brought Sherlock Holmes in?" the doctor asked.

John nodded frantically.

"He's had another seizure," the doctor said, his face stoic. John's heart fluttered. "He's fine, but we've sedated him. We're going to keep him for observation. Likely only for a few days. We'll give him fluids tonight. Are you family?"

"He's fine then? Thank god," John said, breathlessly. "Thank goodness. I… Well. No. I'm not family."

"I'm sorry. It's past public visiting hours. Only family can stay overnight. You'll have to come see him in the morning."

John ran a hand over the lines on his forehead. "No, look. I can't leave him here alone tonight. Just let me…"

"I'm sorry, sir. Only family is allowed to stay past visiting hours."

John clenched his fists at his side. "You don't understand. I am what he has. I am his family."

"I'm sorry," the doctor said again. "Those are the rules."

"Please,"

"Sir…"

"I'll call Mycroft Holmes," John countered, desperately.

The doctor's expression changed. He raised one eyebrow at John.

"Yes, I'll give Mycroft Holmes a ring right now. He'll clear all of this up," he continued, hoping this would actually, miraculously work.

The doctor shifted where he stood. "That won't be necessary," he said finally, looking quickly at the ground. "Follow me, Mr. Watson."

"Jesus," John muttered under his breath in shock as he started to follow the doctor. He turned to see Mary peering at him, her eyes wide. He faltered when he caught her gaze.

"Go on then," she said, nodding at him.

"It was nice to meet you, Mary," John said, holding her gaze.

"Likewise," she said. "Good luck."

She didn't clarify what she was wishing him luck for, and she didn't need to. John turned and followed the doctor through the double doors.


End file.
